Head south on 202 from Frazer PA. Take I-95 to Delaware's Route 1. See the change in color around you, nature turning, a new season taking its course. None of it evident in Pennsylvania, but when you get on 301 to Chesapeake Bay and drive through Maryland, nature begins to sparkle. Clusters of bright yellow Daffodils along the median of the highway, Dogwoods and Bradford Pears with white flowers popping out all along their branches, wild Forsythia dotting the meadows and lining the highway. And then the Cherry Trees. Everywhere the pale pink blossoms.
And me, driving along with my jaw agape, trying to pay attention so that I don't get lost, and wondering how in the world I'm going to concentrate once I get to our office.
But I find a way.
For lunch, we go to a restaurant situated on an inlet of the Chesapeake Bay. Crab Cakes all around. Outside the windows, a pink blur of cherry blossoms. Beyond them, a lone sculler on the water.
I'm not used to this, but I could get there.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Life at the top
I'm writing from my suite on the top floor of my hotel in Frazer, Pennsylvania. This suite was a little surprise when I checked in the other day. After I had kissed the ground in gratitude that I had finally arrived, and walked through the lobby that is an 18th century farmhouse with stone walls and a blazing fire, I breathed a sigh of relief at my familiar surroundings. Then I was told that I was being upgraded to a suite. In an instant, my luck had changed.
It's a lovely room with a view out my windows of an expanse of hills dotted with trees. There is fruit in a basket on the dresser, and the bathroom is about the size of a one-bedroom apartment. The bathtub rivals what I have at home. Down the hall from me is a cozy restaurant for guests of this floor. Yesterday morning, I was delighted to discover that I did not have to go to the main restaurant off the lobby, that I could find Starbucks coffee flowing freely there, and many local and national newspapers available for me. Just because I have a room at the top.
The QVC studio park is just down the road from here, so I imagine this floor was designed in mind of all the celebrities in town to promote their goods, all the celebrities whose framed photos line the halls, with cheesy signatures in black Sharpie pen thanking the hotel.
I haven't spotted any celebrities, but life at the top is still pretty good.
I suppose I should tell you that the top floor is the fifth floor. Still though, it's a floor above the preferred guest floor, and it did require inserting my key in the elevator slot to gain access.
It's a lovely room with a view out my windows of an expanse of hills dotted with trees. There is fruit in a basket on the dresser, and the bathroom is about the size of a one-bedroom apartment. The bathtub rivals what I have at home. Down the hall from me is a cozy restaurant for guests of this floor. Yesterday morning, I was delighted to discover that I did not have to go to the main restaurant off the lobby, that I could find Starbucks coffee flowing freely there, and many local and national newspapers available for me. Just because I have a room at the top.
The QVC studio park is just down the road from here, so I imagine this floor was designed in mind of all the celebrities in town to promote their goods, all the celebrities whose framed photos line the halls, with cheesy signatures in black Sharpie pen thanking the hotel.
I haven't spotted any celebrities, but life at the top is still pretty good.
I suppose I should tell you that the top floor is the fifth floor. Still though, it's a floor above the preferred guest floor, and it did require inserting my key in the elevator slot to gain access.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Elements of my travels
I am not one of those people who arrive early at the airport, not one of those who allow plenty of time to park in the cheap lot, take the shuttle, patiently stand in the security line, and stroll through the airport without so much as a single nerve unraveling over the chance of a missed flight or lost seat. No, not me. The less time I spend hanging out at the airport, the better. I like to check in, walk to my gate and get right on the plane. That requires precision timing that leaves no extra room for traffic, or rain, or too many this level full signs in the parking garage. It also leaves little time for my gate to be the last gate in the mile-long terminal. But at my home airport, it always seems to be just that. Are the other gates ever used or is this something just for me? That could be, because the gate numbers follow an illogical sequence. On my somewhat hot-footed way to Gate 36 this morning, I passed the 20s (logical), and 40s (I turned around to see if I could figure where I went wrong), and suddenly, Gates 37 and 38. And after 38? Oh look, there's 36. Tucked in at the end of the concourse without so much as a whisper to the fact that the numbers are for identification purposes only and do not follow any order that might be considered, well, orderly.
At the Alamo Car Rental near the Philadelphia airport, those yellow signs on the doors that say Caution, doors open out, are there for a reason. They do open out and the fact that you're standing right there and they will open into you, well that's why the signs are on the door. That's why the signs are bright yellow. I rolled my eyes, felt my face burn a bit with new reddish color, and asked myself to pay attention.
But I didn't listen.
This state has turnpikes. Every time I come here, those turnpikes get a good laugh at me. I always miss my exit. And then we're together for another 26 miles of rolling hills and old stone farm houses and barns painted red. Lovely, but this is not a vacation in Amish country. There's not a single place to turn around for 26 miles, meaning that I'm 52 miles out of my way. Mistakes on the turnpike are costly; you'll end up two area codes past your destination. At the toll booth in Reading (read that as Redding because the people who named half the places here apparently did not know how to spell), I looked at the friendly face in the toll booth and said I think I'm lost and need to turn around. He asked where I was going and when I told him, he laughed his response, Oh, you are lost. Thank you. And what did I do? I got right back onto the road in the direction I was previously headed and drove on for 13 more miles.
Thirteen miles down the road, I repeated the same toll booth conversation, and endured the same laughing response.
But I found the hotel. On the same avenue it always is, just beyond the same intersection.
In the bar last night, over beers with my British colleague, we discussed this Pennsylvania-induced inability to pay attention to signs. He had two hours sleep in the 20 hours of travel he made from Buenos Aires to here yesterday. On a napkin, from memory, he wrote directions for me to get to the office in the morning, and then tapped into his vision of me ending up in Boston, put his hand on mine and said, I think I'll cancel the hotel shuttle and just ride with you. That way you'll know where you're going.
I should have known yesterday morning that when Gate 36 followed Gate 38, it would portend to the kind of day where a British citizen on two hours of sleep has to give me directions to a place I've already been. Many times. In my own country no less.
At the Alamo Car Rental near the Philadelphia airport, those yellow signs on the doors that say Caution, doors open out, are there for a reason. They do open out and the fact that you're standing right there and they will open into you, well that's why the signs are on the door. That's why the signs are bright yellow. I rolled my eyes, felt my face burn a bit with new reddish color, and asked myself to pay attention.
But I didn't listen.
This state has turnpikes. Every time I come here, those turnpikes get a good laugh at me. I always miss my exit. And then we're together for another 26 miles of rolling hills and old stone farm houses and barns painted red. Lovely, but this is not a vacation in Amish country. There's not a single place to turn around for 26 miles, meaning that I'm 52 miles out of my way. Mistakes on the turnpike are costly; you'll end up two area codes past your destination. At the toll booth in Reading (read that as Redding because the people who named half the places here apparently did not know how to spell), I looked at the friendly face in the toll booth and said I think I'm lost and need to turn around. He asked where I was going and when I told him, he laughed his response, Oh, you are lost. Thank you. And what did I do? I got right back onto the road in the direction I was previously headed and drove on for 13 more miles.
Thirteen miles down the road, I repeated the same toll booth conversation, and endured the same laughing response.
But I found the hotel. On the same avenue it always is, just beyond the same intersection.
In the bar last night, over beers with my British colleague, we discussed this Pennsylvania-induced inability to pay attention to signs. He had two hours sleep in the 20 hours of travel he made from Buenos Aires to here yesterday. On a napkin, from memory, he wrote directions for me to get to the office in the morning, and then tapped into his vision of me ending up in Boston, put his hand on mine and said, I think I'll cancel the hotel shuttle and just ride with you. That way you'll know where you're going.
I should have known yesterday morning that when Gate 36 followed Gate 38, it would portend to the kind of day where a British citizen on two hours of sleep has to give me directions to a place I've already been. Many times. In my own country no less.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Defining home
Home could be anywhere, really. It's where you're comfortable, where you find a pillow that is thick or thin or fluffy on non-allergenic enough to fit your sleeping. Or where you find an analogy of that pillow. It's where you can breathe. For me, home is two-fold: Where I feel loved, and where I feel safe. That's home. By that definition though, home could be a tent in the woods, or on the beach. If the right people are there, home could be anywhere.
Lately, I've not spent too much time within the walls that mean mortgage and taxes for me, at the address to which my bills are delivered - beyond very necessary sleep, a few hours here and there of equally necessary down time, a shower, a nap, and a place to hang my dry cleaning. In the past month, Augusta has been here, Shannon has been here, Gaye has been here. That translates to two of my dearest friends (from Vermont and New Jersey), and my boss (from London), respectively. Their suitcases and toiletries were here, but we were not. We were here, there and everywhere. We were at Cafe Adobe drinking margaritas, Star Pizza keeping an eye on the girls running circles around the waiters, Ninfa's on a Sunday afternoon, Downing Street, Chaise Lounge drinking champagne splits after a late flight arrival, the Rodeo on a Saturday that had to include new boots, Cyclone Anais because we could watch the basketball, El Tiempo, and Cahills watching basketball and talking about babies both born and unborn. And a fish fry that could have fed twenty but instead on which the six of us feasted towards gluttony. Did I mention that I've had a few margaritas, a lot of dinners out, and a few late hours the past four weeks?
I've introduced and re-introduced, Didn't you two meet last time she was in town? We have laughed and melded and shared stories that made sure that none of us needed to open a compact of blusher. The hours have been painfully late even where the night was designed for the opposite, even when we stayed home and chatted and looked up at the clock and she gasped, Oh no, it's 1:30! As if it were a spill we could wipe up, and not three hours of sleep we lost and would search for the next day and somehow find and then discard over a company-sponsored happy hour because my boss was in town. She yawned and looked at me in a begging sort of Oh no kind of way when we received the email announcement that the happy hour was scheduled, and in her honor.
A friend told me once that you cannot un-ring a bell. I'd never heard that before, but think that lately I am holding hands with the familiar of that one. Some things build momentum on their own and when it's there, it's undeniable.
It's not as if you can put them back on a plane, or try to reclaim the night before. You go on. In this Lazy Susan of juggling visitors and friends and work and sleep and family, one day at a time is not only applicable but necessary. A good night's sleep, as in eight hours, or even six if you're one of those lucky few... who needs that when there's so much discovery and reunion going on?
How do you say one day at a time when you're on a schedule that is all about airport arrivals and departures?
Where am I right now? I'm at home. My mortgage-taxes-and-mail home. Where Cheyenne lets me pay for her life while ruling the rhythm of the house. Right now, save for Cheyenne stretched out along the length of the couch and snoring, it's the echoes I hear of who was so recently here. And the circular hum of the clothes dryer. I'm tired and want to freeze the clock for a day or two. Or a week.
And yet tomorrow, it's my turn to travel. I'll be in Philadelphia and Annapolis for the rest of the week. My bag is packed, but my head is still spinning from my recent yesterdays, from the past four weeks of friends and sharing and laughing. From being honored, and humbled. From being happy and excited to learn again that though our lives are different, it's our hearts that keep us connected. From being surprised that, although I lost my father and feel that I'm still climbing out of the hell that has made this my worst year professionally, somehow my performance review was glowing.
I've been reminded that though nothing remains the same, the physical is familiar. Faces and mannerisms are familiar. Voices and dreams always. There is a braided line between that says to me when I am with them, This is home.
I've been reminded that I am never alone in whatever place or situation I find myself. It's not the walls or the familiarity of photos and stuff gathered through the years that makes this place my home, it's faces, the recognition, the tempo of the present, the promise of the future, the warmth of a shared past. No matter where you kick your shoes off, if the right people are there, well, pillows be damned, you're home.
Lately, I've not spent too much time within the walls that mean mortgage and taxes for me, at the address to which my bills are delivered - beyond very necessary sleep, a few hours here and there of equally necessary down time, a shower, a nap, and a place to hang my dry cleaning. In the past month, Augusta has been here, Shannon has been here, Gaye has been here. That translates to two of my dearest friends (from Vermont and New Jersey), and my boss (from London), respectively. Their suitcases and toiletries were here, but we were not. We were here, there and everywhere. We were at Cafe Adobe drinking margaritas, Star Pizza keeping an eye on the girls running circles around the waiters, Ninfa's on a Sunday afternoon, Downing Street, Chaise Lounge drinking champagne splits after a late flight arrival, the Rodeo on a Saturday that had to include new boots, Cyclone Anais because we could watch the basketball, El Tiempo, and Cahills watching basketball and talking about babies both born and unborn. And a fish fry that could have fed twenty but instead on which the six of us feasted towards gluttony. Did I mention that I've had a few margaritas, a lot of dinners out, and a few late hours the past four weeks?
I've introduced and re-introduced, Didn't you two meet last time she was in town? We have laughed and melded and shared stories that made sure that none of us needed to open a compact of blusher. The hours have been painfully late even where the night was designed for the opposite, even when we stayed home and chatted and looked up at the clock and she gasped, Oh no, it's 1:30! As if it were a spill we could wipe up, and not three hours of sleep we lost and would search for the next day and somehow find and then discard over a company-sponsored happy hour because my boss was in town. She yawned and looked at me in a begging sort of Oh no kind of way when we received the email announcement that the happy hour was scheduled, and in her honor.
A friend told me once that you cannot un-ring a bell. I'd never heard that before, but think that lately I am holding hands with the familiar of that one. Some things build momentum on their own and when it's there, it's undeniable.
It's not as if you can put them back on a plane, or try to reclaim the night before. You go on. In this Lazy Susan of juggling visitors and friends and work and sleep and family, one day at a time is not only applicable but necessary. A good night's sleep, as in eight hours, or even six if you're one of those lucky few... who needs that when there's so much discovery and reunion going on?
How do you say one day at a time when you're on a schedule that is all about airport arrivals and departures?
Where am I right now? I'm at home. My mortgage-taxes-and-mail home. Where Cheyenne lets me pay for her life while ruling the rhythm of the house. Right now, save for Cheyenne stretched out along the length of the couch and snoring, it's the echoes I hear of who was so recently here. And the circular hum of the clothes dryer. I'm tired and want to freeze the clock for a day or two. Or a week.
And yet tomorrow, it's my turn to travel. I'll be in Philadelphia and Annapolis for the rest of the week. My bag is packed, but my head is still spinning from my recent yesterdays, from the past four weeks of friends and sharing and laughing. From being honored, and humbled. From being happy and excited to learn again that though our lives are different, it's our hearts that keep us connected. From being surprised that, although I lost my father and feel that I'm still climbing out of the hell that has made this my worst year professionally, somehow my performance review was glowing.
I've been reminded that though nothing remains the same, the physical is familiar. Faces and mannerisms are familiar. Voices and dreams always. There is a braided line between that says to me when I am with them, This is home.
I've been reminded that I am never alone in whatever place or situation I find myself. It's not the walls or the familiarity of photos and stuff gathered through the years that makes this place my home, it's faces, the recognition, the tempo of the present, the promise of the future, the warmth of a shared past. No matter where you kick your shoes off, if the right people are there, well, pillows be damned, you're home.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Would you believe it's for a small-cap investor fund and the subject was cannabis?
Another dose of poetry awaiting me this morning. I can't help but find beauty in the these words that are not even neighbors, but for today beside each other for the ride.
Flash card antebellum as a carefulness of clergyman. Sweetly and Laundromat. Weak and foreseeable, in peril. Wretched Latino as oriental grandfather clock sidekick. Top heavy convenient and consolidate the diamond anniversary. Suburbia is a castaway, flying.
My eye dances a bit when reading, like a paper cup bobbing along the surface water roll of the rapids. I stare at the words and create meaning where there is none intended. I want to write them out by hand and discover the curves and lines. Strung together, they have a scent of belonging, a warmth of reunion, the magic of an almost full moon.
Hold on a minute. What this says is that I am that much closer to the edge. As in the edge of my sanity. Because before I just now shook my head and snapped out of it, I was actually becoming a bit smitten with my spam mail.
Flash card antebellum as a carefulness of clergyman. Sweetly and Laundromat. Weak and foreseeable, in peril. Wretched Latino as oriental grandfather clock sidekick. Top heavy convenient and consolidate the diamond anniversary. Suburbia is a castaway, flying.
My eye dances a bit when reading, like a paper cup bobbing along the surface water roll of the rapids. I stare at the words and create meaning where there is none intended. I want to write them out by hand and discover the curves and lines. Strung together, they have a scent of belonging, a warmth of reunion, the magic of an almost full moon.
Hold on a minute. What this says is that I am that much closer to the edge. As in the edge of my sanity. Because before I just now shook my head and snapped out of it, I was actually becoming a bit smitten with my spam mail.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Fun with words
Praise eggshell of unaccompanied descriptive, win bald the grade point average: cringe logically.
Um yeah. That was in my in box this morning.
If you read it enough times, you'll think you're reciting the Bard and you'll start looking for the meaning. Praise eggshell.
Um yeah. That was in my in box this morning.
If you read it enough times, you'll think you're reciting the Bard and you'll start looking for the meaning. Praise eggshell.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Today is your lucky day! Open immediately
I was checking the Yahoo mail this morning, something I don't often do but after today I'm going to start checking on a regular basis because there was some really important, even life-changing, stuff waiting for me there.
To think that just yesterday I was fantasizing about winning the lottery. And look at me today, I've won four of them. How many people can say that? The dangers of Walter aside, I'm one lucky gal.
- Chase Bank is looking for me to confirm my account information.
- Walter wants me to sample some "love drugs" for free.
- EuroMillions Lottery notifies me that I have won a lottery in The Netherlands. As a matter of fact, they notified me three times and the last one was URGENT.
- http (that's it, just http) wants my bank account number so that money I won in a (different) lottery can be wired to my account immediately.
- JP Morgan Chase wants me to update my online login and password.
- Chase Manhattan Bank is offering me $20.00 to fill out a survey.
- Oh look, I've won yet another lottery. Someone named Virgil (seriously) has sent me a "personal" email to let me know.
- And - can you believe my luck? - LuckyDay has notified me that my email ID has won (yet another) lottery, this one 500,000 USD.
To think that just yesterday I was fantasizing about winning the lottery. And look at me today, I've won four of them. How many people can say that? The dangers of Walter aside, I'm one lucky gal.
Monday, March 20, 2006
The visitor from the Garden State who says Pennsylvania but decided yesterday that she really liked the way "the east" sounded
I can't quite wrap my head around the absolute fact that Shannon was just here. I miss her already. Already my house is different, too quiet without her. Did I take enough photos? I'm not sure. She did, I know that. About a hundred at the rodeo, and double that of Cheyenne. Cheyenne moped around the house all morning looking for her, and when she realized that Shannon was nowhere to be found, she let out a big sigh, jumped onto the couch and fell asleep.
I called Mom after I dropped Shannon off at the airport late yesterday afternoon. Mom said that it was good to see her on Friday, and she was glad to hear Shannon was back in town already. Then she invited us over for a drink.
Mom, I just took her to the airport. She's heading home now.
Oh, maybe next time then.
And in that kind of instant, I was snapped back home. Friday had been a vacation for me, not so much because I had taken the day off work but because I took my friend, my niece and my Mom to lunch and at that lunch, Mom rejoined the world and it was great to have her back, around and in the present. It was great that Shannon got to be part of that, but also that I got to be part of it. There's a line in a Robert Earl Keen song that nails how I felt, Feels so good, feelin' good again. I'll not soon forget that lunch.
There's a lot from the weekend I won't forget. But mostly how good the feeling when a friend says she wants to see you and spend time with you. And you pick a date and she buys a plane ticket and before you know it, she's spending a long weekend where you live. And over your morning coffee, you look up from your section of the paper and smile at her sitting across from you at the dining table and reading her own section of the paper, and you think to yourself how happy you are that the two of you are friends and she's right here with you. And because the two of you went to the rodeo the day before, you think that it feels as good and comfortable as a great pair of cowboy boots you've had for a while and worn in just right. That right there, that's a good feeling.
I called Mom after I dropped Shannon off at the airport late yesterday afternoon. Mom said that it was good to see her on Friday, and she was glad to hear Shannon was back in town already. Then she invited us over for a drink.
Mom, I just took her to the airport. She's heading home now.
Oh, maybe next time then.
And in that kind of instant, I was snapped back home. Friday had been a vacation for me, not so much because I had taken the day off work but because I took my friend, my niece and my Mom to lunch and at that lunch, Mom rejoined the world and it was great to have her back, around and in the present. It was great that Shannon got to be part of that, but also that I got to be part of it. There's a line in a Robert Earl Keen song that nails how I felt, Feels so good, feelin' good again. I'll not soon forget that lunch.
There's a lot from the weekend I won't forget. But mostly how good the feeling when a friend says she wants to see you and spend time with you. And you pick a date and she buys a plane ticket and before you know it, she's spending a long weekend where you live. And over your morning coffee, you look up from your section of the paper and smile at her sitting across from you at the dining table and reading her own section of the paper, and you think to yourself how happy you are that the two of you are friends and she's right here with you. And because the two of you went to the rodeo the day before, you think that it feels as good and comfortable as a great pair of cowboy boots you've had for a while and worn in just right. That right there, that's a good feeling.
Friday, March 17, 2006
How they fit in
We're walking through the aisles of bookcases and metal shelves piled with things unwanted by one and hopefully purchased by someone else. There are computer keyboards, shoes, frames, coffee mugs, board games, jean jackets in every size and degree of fading, work shirts, boots, chairs, buttons, political signs, posters, albums, and all other sorts of stuff packed into the rooms of the Texas Junk Company. Including, oddly, loose personal photographs of families, children, a house, lives. I pick up a photo from a stack of books. It's of two young boys sitting beside each other and smiling into the camera, a Sears-type posing.
Odd. I wonder who would buy something like that.
She answers immediately: Murderers would.
What?
You know, it's all part of their routine, how they fit in. They buy photos like that, and put them in frames in their house so that people will think it's their family.
Putting the photo back in its place and moving on, I look back at her and say, I don't think they go to that much trouble.
Well, some probably just buy the frames and leave the picture that comes in the frame.
No, I really don't think they go to that much trouble.
Well, I don't know any but I think that's what they do.
When we got into the car, I was still laughing, and I promised her that her little theory would end up here. She's a smart girl, graduated from Carnegie Melon and went on to get her Masters Degree in Environmental Science from UT. But now I think that she has perhaps watched the Robin Williams movie, One Hour Photo, one too many times.
Odd. I wonder who would buy something like that.
She answers immediately: Murderers would.
What?
You know, it's all part of their routine, how they fit in. They buy photos like that, and put them in frames in their house so that people will think it's their family.
Putting the photo back in its place and moving on, I look back at her and say, I don't think they go to that much trouble.
Well, some probably just buy the frames and leave the picture that comes in the frame.
No, I really don't think they go to that much trouble.
Well, I don't know any but I think that's what they do.
When we got into the car, I was still laughing, and I promised her that her little theory would end up here. She's a smart girl, graduated from Carnegie Melon and went on to get her Masters Degree in Environmental Science from UT. But now I think that she has perhaps watched the Robin Williams movie, One Hour Photo, one too many times.
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